


I Want To Believe

by hjbender



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Arguing, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Dates, Billy Trying Not To Be A Shitty Person, Confrontations, Enemies to Friends, Explicit Language, M/M, New Year's Eve, Pre-Slash, Protective Steve Harrington
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-04 04:58:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12763674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbender/pseuds/hjbender
Summary: Steve Harrington catches Billy Hargrove trying to leave a note on his car on New Year's Eve, which leads to some interesting developments in their relationship (or lack thereof) with each other.





	1. Call Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Хочу верить](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14195109) by [MandoDiao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MandoDiao/pseuds/MandoDiao)



December 31, 1984  
8:04 p.m.

He waits until Harrington and the curly-headed twerp disappear inside the arcade. Then he takes one last drag on his cigarette, crushes it out beneath his boot heel, and starts walking across the busy parking lot. His pulse quickens and the anxiety begins to rise in his throat. He puts his hand in the pocket of his leather jacket, fingering the edges of the carefully-folded piece of paper. He focuses on the gleaming mahogany BMW in front of him.

Shit, this is the longest walk he’s ever taken.

Within arm’s reach now, he produces the note and crams it into the gap between the driver-side doors. It slips down before falling out.

It isn’t thick enough.

He clenches his teeth and folds it in half, then tries jamming it in again. No good. It needs another fold, but if he makes it any smaller Harrington won’t see it, and this stupid fucking idea will have been nothing but a waste of—

“The hell are you doing to my car, Hargrove?”

Shit.

Billy Hargrove freezes. He palms the note and closes his fingers around it. Then he puts on his smarmiest, most sultry smile and slowly turns around.  
  
There’s Steve. Hands on his hips, one leg stuck out, feet definitely not planted. Glaring at Billy with those big brown eyes, looking perfectly coiffed and polished and only marginally nervous. There’s still a discolored mark on his forehead from last month, but that’s the only evidence remaining of their fight. It’ll be gone in another week.  
  
“I _said_ ,” Steve utters, taking a step forward and giving Billy’s shoulder a shove, “what the hell are you doing?”

Billy thumps lightly against the BMW. He swipes his tongue across his bottom lip and tries to keep his eyes on Steve’s. It’s harder than he thinks.

“Nothing.” He raises his hands peaceably and takes a step to the side. “Just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year.”  
  
“Yeah?” Steve tilts his head. He hasn’t blinked once. “Then what’s that in your hand? A love note?”

Billy’s heart is suddenly knocking inside his chest like a Judas Priest song. He opens his mouth to snarl a reply when the Palace’s front door bursts open and Maxine rushes out. She’s grinning in absolute delight, her shiny red hair bouncing against her back as she runs. Steve turns to see what has stolen Billy’s attention.

Lucas Sinclair leaps out of his mother’s car, shuts the door, and jogs toward the arcade. Maxine skids to a stop and takes his arm, ushering him into the fray— _New Year's Pizza Party_ , screams the big banner strung across the windows, _6 PM til 10 PM!_ _Prizes & Gift Certificates!_ She’s laughing and rolling her eyes about some game or another that Dustin has just started and come on, he’s already beaten your score, you need to defend your title!

Something in Billy wilts when he sees her face—how happy she is, how easy she has it. Totally carefree and clueless, having the time of her life with the rest of her nerdy little friends. She got to start over. It must be nice.

Steve slowly turns back around. “Listen, jerkwad,” he says coolly, “I know you won our last fight and everything, but I swear to God, if you threaten any of those kids again I’m gonna be on you like a fucking scab. Understand?” He stabs his finger into the middle of Billy’s muscular chest, rocking him slightly.

“Ha,” Billy smirks. “What, are you their dad now or something?”

Steve doesn’t answer. He just looks at Billy as if he were a disgusting insect, some slithering, repugnant vermin whose guts he wouldn’t mind squashing out all over the bottoms of his expensive loafers.

Billy’s smirk fades and he swallows, blinking soberly. Maybe that’s all he deserves. It sounds about right.

He leans forward and claps his hand—the one holding the note—onto Steve’s chest. “See you next year, Harrington,” he mutters, then shoulders past him and walks away.

Steve feels something fall from the front of his coat and looks down to see the note lying on the asphalt. He glances over his shoulder at Billy’s departing back, then bends down and picks it up. The paper is hot and soft, like it’s been held in a sweaty palm for hours. He begins to unfold it.

Handwriting— _nice_ handwriting, like an English teacher’s, cursive and mature and almost feminine—is the first thing Steve notices. Then he sees the words. Then his stunned, stupid brain finally wrings meaning out of them.

Steve doesn’t realize he’s breathing out of his mouth until the fog drifts in front of his eyes, obscuring the words. He raises his head and scans the parking lot, hoping to see Billy’s silhouette.

Too late.

There’s a familiar roar of a 170-horsepower engine and the squeal of tires, and then there goes Billy Hargrove’s midnight blue Camaro, blasting out of the parking lot and onto West Midland, the thump of a heavy metal bass line audible even through the closed windows.

Steve watches it melt into the night, streetlights racing over its shining hood. He looks down at the note he still holds.

_I’m sorry._

An angry heat flares up in Steve’s guts. He thinks of Lucas, Max, himself. The taunting, the jeering. The snide comments on the basketball court. The locker room antics. Calling him Pretty Boy, the Harrington Bitch. The fists that beat him to an unconscious, bloody pulp a month earlier. Sorry isn’t good enough. It doesn’t even come fucking _close_. And that asshole thinks he can just . . .

_I’m sorry. For everything._

Steve crumples the note in his fist and sighs forcefully.

_For everything._

He wants to throw it away. He wants to slam it into the nearest trashcan and wash his hands—literally, with soap and water and goddamn kerosene—and get back inside and watch those dumbass, goofy kids play their dumbass, goofy games like he promised he would.

_Call me._

Steve leans against his BMW and opens his hand. He peels open the wadded-up note and stares at it. He reads it again—and again and again.

_I’m sorry. For everything. 555-9012 Call me._

For a long time he stands out in the cold parking lot, rereading a 6-word note and wondering what the hell it means. Wondering if Billy knows about the monsters, the cover-ups, those weird tunnels. Maybe he’s finally found out the type of guy Steve really is. Maybe he wants to kill him. Maybe he wants to fuck him, hell, Steve doesn’t know, he was never good at reading people. Maybe this is all just in Steve’s head. Maybe Billy just wants to apologize for being an unbearable fucking prick. If that were the case, it was going to take a lot more than a phone call to clear the air.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, rubs one side of his face. Stares at the note.

Guess there’s only one way to find out how sorry Billy Hargrove is.

Steve straightens up and carefully refolds the piece of paper. He sticks it in his front jeans pocket, tucking it beneath his keys, jamming it into the deepest, darkest corner he possibly can. Burying it like a dead cat.

He lifts his face to the arcade’s flashing neon façade.

_See you next year, Harrington._

Next year. 1985. It’s unimaginable that those numbers could even exist as a date in time. They aren’t even real yet. They’re still part of the future. Fiction and fantasy, as hard to believe as a huge interdimensional monster attacking Hawkins—or an apology note from Billy Hargrove. With his phone number on it.

Steve smiles and lets out a soft little _hmph_. It turns into mist as it leaves his nostrils.

Maybe he could believe this, too.


	2. Too Late For Love

The note lies buried in the bottom of Steve’s sock drawer for a week. Finally, the Sunday before school starts up again, he makes the call.

He doesn’t need the note—he’s already memorized the number—but he gets it out anyway, steals the phone with the extra-long wall cable from the living room, and locks his bedroom door. He sits down on the floor beside his bed, on the far side, facing the window. He holds the phone in his lap and the note in his left hand, takes a breath, and punches in the numbers with his thumb.

He puts the phone to his ear and waits.

It rings five times before it’s finally picked up. “Hello?”

Steve sighs in relief. “Hey, Max. How’s it going?” he says a little too cheerfully.

“Um . . . good? I guess? Why are you calling here?”

“I’m, uh.” Damn. There’s no good way to say it. “I was just wondering if Billy’s around. I need to talk to him.”

There’s a clatter on the other side as Maxine either drops the phone or cups her hand around the mouthpiece.

“What’d he do this time?” she whispers fiercely. “Did he beat you up again? Has he been picking on you?”

“What? No. Jesus, you sound like my mom. No, I just need to talk to him for a minute. Is he there?”

A pause. Then, an almost inaudible whisper: “Did he ask you out?”

The phone almost slips out of Steve’s sweaty hand. “ _What_?”

“Never mind. Uh. One sec.” A clunk as the receiver is set down on something hard, likely a table, then Maxine’s distant voice: “Billy! Phone!” Pause. “ _Billy_!”

Silence. Vague noises. A blast of rock music as a door opens somewhere.

Steve’s right foot begins bouncing nervously. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Before the urge to throw the phone out the window becomes too irresistible, there’s a click and suddenly he hears Billy’s voice.

“Okay, hang up. _Yo_. I mean it, punk, this is a private conversation. Out.”

Steve thinks he hears Maxine rolling her eyes in the background, then there’s one final click, and now he’s alone on the phone with Billy Hargrove.

“Yeah, who’s this?”

Steve’s fingers clutch the phone cord so hard his knuckles turn white. “Hi, yeah, it’s uh. It’s Steve.”

Just like that, something changes in Billy’s voice. Steve can’t put his finger on it—it might be fear or timidness, he can’t tell—but it’s a tone he’s never heard from Billy’s mouth before.

“Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.” Steve wrings the curly wire like he’s trying to strangle it. “Uh, I got your note.”

“Obviously.”

Steve grimaces in actual, physical pain. He puts his hand to his forehead as if it’s killing him. “It said to call you, so I did. I mean I am.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There’s only a five-second pause, but it feels like five years to Steve. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, Billy finally jumps in.

“Listen. I wanna apologize for what I . . . for a lotta things. I’ve been a real asshole.”

“That’s one hell of an understatement.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Pause. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m just fucking sorry.”

Steve doesn’t know, either. He sits on the floor with his mouth open and his mind a complete blank.

“How can I make this right?” Billy finally asks in that strange new tone of his. “I mean, can I even do that now, or . . . am I just too late?”

“What, to make things right?”

“Yeah.”

“I dunno.”

“Do you hate me?”

“Yeah, kind of,” says Steve honestly. “You beat the shit outta me. You’ve been grinding on me since you came to Hawkins, terrorizing the kids, driving around like a—”

“I know, look, I know. I messed up big time and I’m sorry. If I could go back and undo it . . .” A long, wordless stretch follows Billy’s sigh.

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you doing this? What happened that made you change your mind?”

No response.

“Your sister told me what happened that night we got into it. About the needle and everything. Was it that?”

“No.” Another sigh. “I mean, a little, yeah, but this . . . I’m just fucking sick of so many things right now, dude. I’m tired of being pissed off all the time and feeling so powerless about it. I dunno, I just . . . I want something different.”

Steve had to smile a little at the surfer slang. He wonders if Billy has ever surfed before. It would suit a guy like him.

“What’s got you so pissed off all the time?” he asks.

“I don’t know. This whole situation, I guess.” Steve hears the metallic flick of a lighter, then a deep inhale. “My family. Getting dragged outta school my senior year, moving to this shithole. Leaving all my friends behind. There’s a lotta fuel in this bonfire, man.”

“And now you wanna put it out?”

“Not sure if I can. But I’d like to try.”

Steve swallows, closes his fist around the note. “What are you doing after school tomorrow?”

“Working.”

“You have a job?”

“My Camaro doesn’t run on air, Harrington. So yeah, I work.”

Steve cringes at his own stupidity. “Okay, where?”

“The tire place on Highway 37.”

“When do you get off?”

“All the fucking time, but if you wanna reach me after work, that would be six.”

Steve hears the grin in Billy’s voice and rolls his eyes. Maybe this was where Maxine gets it from. “Right. So if I were to come by at, like, five after, would you wanna go . . .”

“Go . . . ?”

“Go get something to eat, or . . . I dunno, hang out and talk some more?”

“Gee golly, Harrington, that sounds fucking swell. Count me in.”

“You’re really a sarcastic dickhole, you know that?”

“No, I’m serious. It sounds good. But I’m not getting in that goddamn yuppie-wagon of yours. We’re taking my car.”

Steve props his elbows on his knees and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That means I have to trust you’re not gonna drive me out into the middle of the woods somewhere and murder me with a damn machete.”

“Ah, well, see, _normally_ that’d be my idea of a perfect date, but I keep hearing these weird rumors about you having some kinda wicked-looking nail bat and being pretty good with it, so . . . yeah. No worries. I’ll keep my hands to myself, promise.”

Steve finds himself fighting an emerging grin. “Alright. So. Six-oh-five?”

“How about six thirty. For your sake, man. I'm not trying to welch out or anything, it’s just I’m a mechanic, so unless you’ve got a fetish for transmission fluid, I’m gonna need a shower first.”

An image of Billy in the locker room suddenly plows its way into Steve’s mind. There he is, strutting around in the buff for no good reason, making a show of flexing his muscles, wagging his jewels at anyone who happens to glance in his direction, cackling and leering the whole time. Steve blushed then, and he’s blushing now. God damn it.

“Sure, no problem,” he says. “Uh . . . do you wanna meet at your house or—”

“My house? No way. What about yours?”

Steve freezes. He can see it now: the Camaro screeching to a halt in front of his house, his mother drawing back the curtains and staring in horror at the _thing_ sleazing up the front walk and ringing the doorbell. His father opening the door, and there’s Billy, leaning against the trim, car still running and the sounds of some devil-worshipping metal band screaming out of the open windows. He’s wearing sunglasses, of course, tight jeans, that ratty leather jacket. Shaggy blond curls spilling over his collar, earring twinkling dangerously, a cigarette dangling between his lips. _Yo, pops. I’m here for your baby boy_.

Oh Jesus God, hell no.

“How about the Union 76 in town?”

“Oh. Yours too, huh?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Yeah, Union 76 at six-thirty. No prob.”

“Okay.”

An awkward pause.

“So,” says Steve, “do you. Wanna keep talking or save it for tomorrow?”

“Let’s do it tomorrow. Talk it— _shit_ —save it for tomorrow, yeah, I’m a lot better in person. Better talking. I mean I prefer to talk in person rather than . . . _shit fuck goddammit_.”

Steve tilts the phone away from his mouth so Billy doesn’t hear him snort. Yeah, he’s definitely never heard this tone before. “Hey, listen, it sounds like you’re having some problems over there, so I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. Hey, um. Thanks for calling, Steve. I’m . . . I’m glad you did.”

Steve’s smile fades into a more serious look, but one that is much lighter than it was a few minutes ago. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “Me too.”

And that was it.

Steve places the receiver into its cradle—gently, as if it matters—and leans back against the bed. It sinks in slowly, what he’s just done, and it makes him feel really, really confused.

He’s going to meet Billy Hargrove tomorrow evening at the 76 station. They’re going to go out and grab a bite somewhere together, probably fast food in Billy’s fast car, then find someplace where they can talk plainly to one another, and discuss their many, many problems.

It’s a damned date. Steve is going on a date with Billy Hargrove. With the sadistic asshole who almost killed him two months ago, and who is going to spend the next God-knows-how-long apologizing to Steve and everyone else in the county until peace and order is finally restored.

It sounds insane. But stranger things have happened in Hawkins. By comparison, this is small. Miniscule, even. Hardly noteworthy. But still . . .

Steve sucks in a breath through his teeth and presses his lips into a thin line.

He’ll bring the bat. Just in case.


	3. You Might Think

January 7, 1985  
6:34 p.m.

Billy exhales a lungful of smoke through his grin. “Well, well. So the legends are true.”

Steve lifts the nail-studded baseball bat from his shoulder and gives it a whirl. “Yeah, well, you can never be too careful,” he says flatly. “And I _am_ pretty good with it.”

“Jesus. Is the crime here that bad?”

“Nah. I use it to tenderize meat.” Steve forces himself to smile.

Billy gives him a sultry look. “Can I hold it?”

Steve offers him the bat, handle first. Billy clamps his cigarette between his lips and takes it in both hands, gives it an experimental swing, adjusts his grip.

“Kinda small, isn’t it?”

“It’s a kid’s bat. Belonged to Jonathan Byers’s little brother.”

“S’at right? How did _you_ end up with it?”

“It’s a long story,” says Steve. “I’m sure you’ll hear about it one day.”

Billy nods and gives the bat back, takes the cigarette from his mouth and flicks the ash away. “‘One day’? You got some big damn secret you’re keeping, Harrington?”

“Yeah, actually.”

Both of Billy’s eyebrows lift interestedly. He sucks his cigarette and gazes at Steve with shining, smoldering eyes. Steve swallows and winces against the cold breeze blowing in the small Union 76 parking lot. It plays with his hair and brings with it the smells of gasoline, car exhaust, and the spicy, smoky hint of a distant wood fire.

And Billy’s cigarette, of course. Steve also catches a whiff of his cologne, a harsh, cheap, overtly masculine fragrance. He instantly detests it.

“Well then”—Billy tosses his cigarette away and opens the passenger door of his Camaro—“shall we?”

Common sense screams at Steve not to do it, but he’s already reached the point of no return; he can’t turn back now without looking like a major pussy.

So he leans in and tucks his bat into the footwell, then slides into the seat. It’s really deep and low, makes him feel like he’s sitting just inches above the asphalt. The leather upholstery is cold on his butt and the backs of his thighs.

Billy shuts his door and walks around the front while Steve automatically reaches for the seat belt. He’s buckling himself in when Billy drops into the driver’s seat, sees what he’s doing, and stares.

“What’s the matter, Harrington, you don’t trust my driving?”

“I’ve seen the way you drive, so no, I don’t.”

Billy smiles. “Honesty. That’s one of the things I like about you, Steven. I really appreciate that shit.”

Steve curls his lip in disdain. “Yeah, it sounds like it.”

There’s a jingle as Billy turns the key in the ignition, then Steve recoils as he’s blasted head-on with 110 decibels of Metallica’s _Ride the Lightning_. He claps his hands over his ears as Billy casually reaches over and turns the volume down to a less ear-rending level.

Steve lowers his hands. “Jesus Christ, Hargrove, how is it you’re not deaf already?”

“What?”

“I said—” He stops himself. Billy is smirking at him. “Oh, so you’re a wiseass, huh?”

“One of my many talents,” says Billy, and thrusts the shifter into neutral. He taps the gas pedal a couple times, making the engine roar. Steve can feel the vibrations in his seat.

“So.” Billy licks his lips and turns to face him. “What’s your poison?”

* * *

They end up in the drive-thru at McDonald’s. Steve tries his best to keep his order separate, but Billy just ignores him, pays for both of their meals, and passes the bag to Steve when it arrives. Steve holds onto it like a life preserver as they peel out of the parking lot and speed through town. The hot food warms his lap and fills the car with greasy, delicious aromas.

“Any place in particular you wanna go?” Billy asks, dropping a gear.

“Yeah, um.” Steve lurches from the shift, his seatbelt cutting a diagonal line into his chest. “I was thinking the park over in west Hawkins. You know where that is?”

“No. How far?”

“Eight minutes, tops. I can tell you how to get there. Just turn left when you come to the next light.”

Billy tongues his lips. “S’it busy, this park?”

“Not this time of year.” An uncomfortable knot forms in Steve’s stomach, and suddenly he feels very far away from his car, his home, his parents—bat or no bat. “Why? You worried about witnesses?”

Billy snorts and reaches over to bury his hand in the McDonald’s bag that Steve is still clutching. He fishes out a French fry and sticks it between his lips. “Jesus, Harrington, calm down. I’m not a serial killer.”

“I don’t know that. I don’t know anything about you.”

“Then I guess you’re just gonna have to trust me, huh?”

Their heads turn toward one another simultaneously. The same serious expression is mirrored on both their faces. Billy blinks and turns his eyes back to the road, then reaches out to steal another fry. His hand misses the bag and lands directly on Steve’s crotch. They both jump as if jolted by an electric current.

“Shit, sorry—”

“It’s okay—”

“Accident.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“It’s okay.”

No one talks for a while. The silence between them is filled by the instrumental bridge of Iron Maiden’s _Hallowed Be Thy Name_. It’s a long one, thankfully.

Billy makes the left turn onto May Street, fists clamped fast to the wheel, resisting the call of another golden French fry. Steve holds his bottom lip between his teeth and stares out the window at the passing scenery. It’s mostly pitch darkness interrupted by street lights, not a lot to see.

“Take a right at this intersection,” he says.

Billy actually puts on his blinker before turning the wheel.

Roughly five minutes later they roll into an empty parking space at the edge of a well-lighted recreation area. There are some walking trails, a garden, a playground. It’s not totally remote; houses are visible one block over, and on the adjacent sidewalk an older man is taking his overfed Dachshund for an evening stroll. Both pet and owner share a similar waddling gait.

“This okay?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

Billy cuts the ignition, pockets the keys, and grabs their drinks from the cup holders. Steve picks up his nail bat in one hand and grasps the McDonald’s bag in the other, and hauls himself out of the low-slung seat. He feels a little better once he shuts his door. Less vulnerable, more in control.

They pick a spot on the deserted playground to sit and eat. After a brief game of yours-or-mine, they tuck into their burgers and fries and deliberately ignore the agonizing awkwardness building between them. Billy seems more experienced when it comes to bearing the unbearable, evidenced by the way he sprawls so indifferently on the merry-go-round, but Steve is not. It’s like being stuck on the sidelines and watching your team get creamed while the coach is busy flirting with the cheerleaders. He can’t stand it. So he takes a sip of his Coke and just comes out with it:

“So what made you decide to treat everyone in Hawkins like garbage?”

Billy balks, then chuckles and licks a spot of ketchup from his thumb. “Wow. Straight for the jugular. You don’t pussyfoot around, do you, Harrington?”

“The suspense was killing me.”

“Hm.” Billy nods and sets down his cheeseburger. “See, that’s because you actually care about the situation. You got a stake in it. That’s a good way to get yourself hurt. It’s easier to deal with things if you don’t give a shit how it all turns out.”

Steve goes still, suddenly feeling like he’s been asked to analyze a piece of classic literature. He’s pretty sure Billy just answered his question—indirectly and ambiguously—but he’s not _completely_ sure. It seems to make sense, though. It feels like that’s how Billy meant it.

“So that’s it?” Steve blinks. “You’re just not gonna give a shit about anything for the rest of your life?”

Billy tilts his head to the side and grimaces. His earring glitters in the orange glow of the sodium lamps. “Nah, see. Realistically, I think it’s impossible. But it’s worth a shot. Picking and choosing what to care about, it’s pain and suffering on my terms, y’know? I can’t control all it of, but I should at least be able to have some say over how and when I get my heart broken. Figure this bloodsucking bitch of a world owes me that much.”

Steve finds himself becoming irritated. “And if that means treating people like shit and being a huge prick, you’re totally cool with that.”

Billy lifts his hands and grins. “Hey. When you don’t care what anyone thinks of you, you’re a free man. I don’t expect a spoiled little prep like you to understand ‘cause all you’ve ever done is care what others think.”

Steve’s irritation mutates into full-on anger. He glares at Billy and purely, absolutely hates his guts. He sets his cup down forcefully on the merry-go-round’s deck, making the ice rattle.

“It’s better than being a lonely, miserable piece of shit,” he snaps, and Billy’s grin instantly drops off his face. “Better than going through life a jaded, pessimistic jackass and letting your heart rot out because you’re too goddamn delicate to handle the heat.”

Billy points his finger at Steve warningly. “You don’t know what I’ve been through, Harrington,” he utters. “You don’t know _shit_.”

“So _tell me_!” Steve cries. “God, I’m not sitting out here freezing my ass off just because I had a craving for cheeseburgers! I wanted to—”

He realizes how loud he is and stops, reins in his emotions, and gives Billy a cold, calculating look. “I wanted to see if you’re actually sorry, but it sounds like you’re not. You can’t _not care_ about anything and still regret the things you do. It doesn’t work like that.”

Wow, Steve is a little proud of himself right now. He wishes his English teacher could hear some of the words he’s using, she’d be shocked.

“So which is it?” he says. “Are you sorry, or do you still not care?”

Billy’s eyes are gleaming. They look almost wet, but it’s hard to tell in this light. “Both.”

“You can’t be both.”

“I’m in a really weird place right now, Steven. I feel both.”

“Well, which is strongest?”

There’s no hesitation whatsoever: “The sorry. Sorrow—the sorriness. It’s stronger.”

“Good,” Steve mutters. “It should be. You’re a sorry person.”

Billy lifts his chin and looks down his nose at Steve, an insolent curve on his mouth. “You and my old man would get along real good.”

Something about the way Billy says that hits Steve in the heart—the unsteady voice, the sadness in his tone, as if he’s been mortally wounded and this whole rude, bad-boy persona is just a means of covering up how heavily he’s bleeding. It’s a pathetic image, but God, Steve just can’t seem to let go of his anger. He’s not sure if he _wants_ to let it go. It’s a hell of a lot easier to hate Billy Hargrove than it is to like him.

Steve’s thought processes screech to a halt. He’s heard something like that before, hasn’t he?

_It’s easier to deal with things if you don’t give a shit how it all turns out._

And just like that, Steve finally, truly grasps the definition of irony. Ms Pierce has been beating him over the head with _Pride and Prejudice_ ever since September, and it’s just now sinking in. The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them:

“God, I’m such an idiot.”

Billy quirks an eyebrow.

Steve takes a deep breath and drags a hand through his hair. He doesn’t think he can explain it. He’s only now managed to wrap his head around the concept, but in a broad, vague way he thinks he finally understands Billy Hargrove. Or at least he’s beginning to.

“Listen, we’re both guilty of trying to take the easy way out,” he says slowly. “But I don’t think there even _is_ an easy way. I think we’re just kidding ourselves. All the good things in life—you know, forgiveness and caring and trust, _that_ stuff—it’s hard to come by. It’s not something you automatically get when you’re born. If you want it, you’ve gotta work for it. It’s hard, but . . . if you want it bad enough, you can find a way.” Steve forgets where he was going with this and finishes with a shrug. “I dunno. Am I making any sense?”

Billy is staring at Steve as if he’s seeing him for the first time. The corner of his mouth twitches like it wants to smile. “I think you’re starting to.”

Steve sighs. Maybe it’s a good thing Ms Pierce isn’t here.

“You wanna split this apple pie with me?”

Steve raises his head and gazes keenly at Billy. _Of course_ he wants to split that apple pie. Here it is, January in Indiana, with his ice-loaded soft drink slowly coaxing his body into a hypothermic state, his fingers already half-frozen sticks of meat at the ends of his hands. A deep-fried pastry pocket of fruit and molten sugar sounds heavenly.

“What, you don’t want it?”

“It’s a peace offering.” Billy slips the pie out of its box and carefully breaks it in half. He holds the bigger piece out to Steve. “Here.”

Steve looks at the pie, then Billy’s face. “Food won’t instantly fix things between us.”

“Jesus Christ, Harrington, I’m not expecting it to. It’s an apple pie, not a goddamn ring. Hurry up and take it, the filling’s hot as fuck.”

Steve hesitates another second before finally reaching out to accept the offering. It’s not an olive branch, but what the hell. It is 1985, after all. The pie’s steamy heat brings the feeling back to Steve’s partially-numb fingertips, prickling and tingling.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

The smile they share at that moment is tiny and fleeting, but it’s 100-percent real. Suddenly Steve doesn’t feel quite so cold anymore. At least his face doesn’t.

“So,” he drawls, biting into the pie’s flaky, buttery crust, “you ever been surfing before?”

**Author's Note:**

> WOW. Thank you so much for the feedback and support on this story, guys. I'm blown away by all the good, kind, and positive things you're saying about it. I know I haven't responded to all your reviews individually, but this story is unfolding rather quickly and I figure the best way to show my thanks is to keep on writing. Thank you all for the encouragement!


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